


Salt in the Wound

by DarkFairytale



Series: Mentor Tormentor [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Will, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal in Love, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, is not the answer, or at least not in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have a drink with me.”</p><p>Hannibal eyes the full glass of whisky sitting before Will sceptically. “Do you think it wise to be drinking whilst still on pain medication?”</p><p>“I didn’t ask for your medical opinion, Dr Lecter.” Will levels Hannibal with a scathing look, and slams down a second glass on the dark wood of the table. “I’m asking you to humour me.”</p><p>In which Hannibal and Will survive the ‘cliff-hanger’ but Will has no idea what he wants, Hannibal is pining, and they both drink a little too much.</p><p>[Can be read as a standalone, or as a part of the Mentor Tormentor series].</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt in the Wound

**Author's Note:**

> So I am writing more Hannibal fic to help make me miss it less. Here is my version of events following the cliff-hanger at the end of Wrath of the Lamb. I wanted to explore a Hannibal that has succeeded in finally getting Will all to himself, but still not being able to have him exactly the way he wants.
> 
> Although this fic works as a standalone and can be read as such, it also works as a precursor for the other fics in my Mentor Tormentor series.

Will had always been fond of water. Fishing, boating. It had soaked into his nature since youth. He had been brought up with it. The meticulous attention required to pick apart an engine and the intricate skill to put together a fishing fly were ingrained in his very being. He knew how to take what water had to offer, and to respect it. He would go to the rivers and the coast when he felt overwhelmed, and let all his inner turmoil ebb steadily away. To Will Graham, water had always meant calm. Meant serenity. Meant escape.

These thoughts flash momentarily through his mind as he pitches himself and Hannibal off the cliff top, covered in Dragon’s blood, and into the sea. This is an escape, without a doubt.

The main question that presents itself, however, is what is this an escape from? From Jack and the FBI, who will inevitably want to question Will and lock Hannibal back up again? From Molly and Wally, who he doubts he could face again after tonight? Or from the very man who is falling with him?

Hannibal Lecter. Can’t live with him. Can’t live without him. Escaping _with_ Hannibal Lecter, or escaping _from_ Hannibal Lecter?

Will knows now that the only way he will truly escape Hannibal is by dying. But does he want to die? And more importantly, does he really want to leave Hannibal?  

There is no time left for thinking it through, for questioning his extreme move. They hit the water hard. The crashing waves swallow them up.

It is frantic and terrifying in those dark waters, and although Will knows that if he wants to die quickly he’ll have to give up fighting, the shock of the water spilling into his lungs rules out that option. He pulls himself to the surface. The waves are fierce and rolling, and it is difficult to keep his head above water. It is bitter cold and the salt probes into the open wounds in his cheek and shoulder, twisting and tearing with saltwater fingers. It hurts. A hell of a lot. But the burning sensation assists to keep him alert.

Alert enough that it gives him time to ultimately realise that he cannot decide why he did throw them off the cliff. So all he can do is let fate and the sea decide for him. If he dies, he’ll be free of it all. If Hannibal dies, Will will finally be free of Hannibal. If they both die then that is the end of their twisted story. But if they both live he knows he will not be able to leave Hannibal Lecter again. He cannot make that choice, and now, being pulled closer to the rocky face of the cliff, he realises it is no longer his choice to make. It is out of his hands.

Unfortunately and fortunately for Will Graham, he fell with a man who smirks in the face of fate and great powers. Because Hannibal Lecter is a force unto himself. Hannibal Lecter is another being entirely.

Will sees Hannibal break the surface of the water a fair while after Will does, though he isn’t all that far away. The man is bloodlessly pale, and he’s gasping, but his eyes are flinty with determination in the dark. Hannibal’s hair is plastered to his head, and whatever blood he is losing is further lost in the dark waves. He looks like some mystical being, rising from the water. But the waves might take him again.

They may take both of them. It is very cold, after all. And the waves are very strong, after all. And the cliff is ever closer, after all. Will is very tired.

He loses himself for a moment, and the next thing he knows he is being pulled up out of the water again, and he splutters and struggles, wondering when exactly his head had slipped underwater. The fact that he does not remember it panics him and he grips to the lifeline that holds him. He turns his head and locks eyes with Hannibal, and from the look in the cannibal’s eyes, Will knows that Hannibal is determined to live, so it’s now a matter of whether Will wants to or not, and whether Hannibal will let him or not.

Hannibal does not say anything, but his eyes scan the coastline quickly and calculatingly. The rush and pull of the waves draws them closer to the cliffs. A moment later, Hannibal begins to half-swim and half-drag Will parallel to the cliffs. Even though the water is crashing around them Will can hear the grunts of pain Hannibal is making from the exertion of swimming and pulling Will with the bullet wound in his side.

Will fights out of Hannibal’s grasp. It has a stronger hold on him than the water.

“Will.” Hannibal spits out, angry and admonishing.

“Let me go.” Will tells him.

Hannibal shakes his head violently; his eyes sharp and full of savage fury, “Not now.”

“I’m with you.” Will desperately corrects Hannibal’s assumption, and has to pause to fight to keep his head up above the latest wave that crashes into them. “Just, let me go. I’ll follow you.”

Hannibal spits out saltwater and at this proximity Will can see the blood in it, black, still, in the moonlight. He glares at Will like he does not believe him.

But Will is fittingly afraid now. His dark moment below the water had spooked him and the second that Hannibal had pulled him up to the surface his instinct had made its decision. It wants to survive. And survival means Hannibal Lecter.

Will’s decision to follow him now is a promise to follow him in all things. If both of them live, Will cannot leave Hannibal. This is Will’s decision made.

He does not know if Hannibal quite figures that out, but he does nod sharply and turn to swim in his chosen direction, expecting Will to follow him. Will watches Hannibal’s arms carve through the water for a moment, before his body mimics the stroke and follows. He has made his decision.

Will eventually understands what it is Hannibal’s aiming for when they approach a break in the cliffs; an alcove of stone between them.

It takes all remaining energy to battle the drag of the sea and to make it toward the alcove without crashing into the rocks. It means turning against the tide and swimming away from the cliff as the water drags them in.

By the time they get close to their destination, Will is completely exhausted. It is Hannibal that finds purchase on the rock, and his hand is vice-like in the grip it takes on Will’s shirt, hauling him up alongside him.

It is a struggle for the both of them to drag themselves up and onto the rocky surface, trailing blood and the last of their adrenaline-fuelled energy behind them. Will coughs up saltwater and feels the burn in his lungs as he tries to breathe. Hannibal is a little behind him, the hissing sounds he is making through his teeth betray that he is in pain.

Will pulls himself up, feeling blood ooze its way down his cheek and digs his nails into his palms in an attempt to distract himself from the stabbing pain in his shoulder and face. He looks back at Hannibal, and Hannibal looks up at him, skin the colour of white marble and dark eyes narrowed in suspicion, the sea is a roaring mass behind him.

Will sees it before Hannibal does, the huge wave that lifts and descends towards their stony place of temporary safety. Hannibal’s legs are still partially in the water and Will knows that the strength of the pull will drag Hannibal back out with it, and Will too, possibly.

He could just leave Hannibal to the sea. Let one mighty power devour another.

But then, he had made his choice back there in the water, and even subconsciously before that, he supposes; back there on the clifftop, back there by the police car, back there in the Baltimore Hospital when he said ‘please’.

He grabs Hannibal and pulls him with a renewed burst of energy, scrambles them up and back from the water’s edge, and clings to a rocky outcrop at the base of the cliff. The water hits them hard, but when it draws back, Will and Hannibal both have a hold on the stone enough to keep themselves in place.

When the water retreats again Will looks up at Hannibal and Hannibal is watching him back. Hannibal’s wicked intelligence has picked up on Will’s uncertain intention of their deep-sea dive, Will is sure of it. But he looks at Will now like he knows Will’s decision is made. He knows Will chose life. He knows Will chose him.

He knows Will cannot live without him.

*

The climb to the clifftop is long and arduous, and the trek to the abandoned car of Francis Dolarhyde seems to take a lifetime. It takes even longer due to the fact that not only are they losing blood, but Hannibal is strict on ensuring that they are not leaving a blood trail. Quite how they both make it still breathing, let alone walking, to the vehicle is something Will will never understand. He assumes the adrenaline and the fact that both of them fought so hard to survive the Dragon, and then the sea, means that they are not willing to give up now. That being said, Will rests boneless against the hood of the car when they reach it. He watches through tired eyes whilst Hannibal makes emergency bandages out of what is left of their shirts.

Will feels his head lolling by the time Hannibal is wrapping his shoulder up. Will feels incredibly tired, and it is taking all of his energy holding material up to the wound on his face. The next thing he knows, Hannibal is tutting at him and two fingers are tapping at his temple.

“Will.” Hannibal says, and his voice is stern and commanding. “Stay with me.”

“Where else would I go?” Will slurs in return.

***

Where else indeed.

Hannibal can hardly believe how game-changing the last twenty four hours have been. And honestly - bullet wound, cliff dive and ice-cold seawater aside - he could not be happier with the outcome.

Will has made his decision, and he has chosen Hannibal.

The promise of Will’s foreseeable company is what drives Hannibal on, keeps him awake, staring at the road ahead, hands tight on the steering wheel. He is relieved that he owns a house not too far away. It was why he had chosen the cliff-house in the first place, because he knew the Dragon would be coming, and he knew he would potentially need somewhere to retreat to afterward, either with or without Will Graham. He is delighted that it is the former situation. It would have been a great shame to have lost his boy; with Will in reaching distance of his full potential, his animalistic inner darkness. And in the deeper caverns of Hannibal’s indulgent fascination with the former special agent, he realises that Will’s heart is more in Hannibal’s reach now than it ever has been.

He glances at Will, slumped but breathing, against the window of the passenger seat. He is dazedly awake and whilst Hannibal is so very tempted to reach out and place a hand on Will’s thigh, to catch his hand and press it to his lips and taste the remnants of sea salt and blood, delicious and sharp contrast, he does not dare influence Will whilst Will is only semi-conscious. He is growing bored of manipulating an unwilling Will, now the prospect of having Will in honesty and entirety is becoming increasingly possible. He will not tarnish his chances whilst those chances exist. He does not want to scare Will off now that Will has chosen to be with him.

Because, Hannibal knows, Will will be his, in one way or another, from this day forth, and so Hannibal controls his temptations. In fact, he allows himself a moment of silent congratulation at achieving this very thing - winning back Will - a feat that a month ago, seemed an increasingly lost cause. He should have known that he had a stronger hold on Will Graham than he had assumed; that three years would make little difference, even with the unforeseen wife and stepson. But all the same, Will’s decisions this evening have been most pleasing, if slightly unexpected.

The arrival at the house, the clumsy stumble inside and the struggle to keep each other conscious enough to stitch each other’s wounds drains them both. Will stitches Hannibal up with surprising accuracy; his eyes squinted in drowsy concentration, his free hand resting flat on Hannibal’s stomach. Hannibal lies back, propped up on his elbows, intent on monitoring Will’s work and not to become distracted and stare at Will’s fingers splayed across his skin. Once Hannibal’s wound is sewn, he manhandles Will onto the bed. He can feel Will’s breath on his face as he stitches Will’s cheek. The hitches of Will’s breath and whimpers of pain that escape unchecked from Will’s lips and so close to Hannibal’s ear as he works makes Hannibal’s skin tingle in an unsurprising but controllable surge of foggy arousal. He ignores his own reaction, but cannot resist comforting Will, allowing himself to grasp Will’s hand briefly. Will does not snatch it away. In fact his grip is terribly tight and tense on Hannibal’s fingers.

“I might break them.” Will’s words of warning are mumbled, and Hannibal cannot tell if it they are intended in concern or as a threat.

Hannibal does not really care. “You can try. It will not be the worst that you have done to me, Will.”

He does not think Will knows how he meant the words either, as he releases the bitter bark of a laugh through clenched teeth, shrugs and his fingers finally relax again in his grip.

Will eventually passes out on the bed whilst Hannibal stitches his shoulder, from a mixture of pain, medication and pure exhaustion.

Hannibal cuts the thread and bandages Will’s shoulder again. He eases Will up the bed as far as his dregs of remaining energy will allow him to.

Will lies sprawled across the mattress, shirtless and still a little bloody, but it is his own blood now; the Dragon’s had been washed away by the sea. His brunette curls are dried in a crisp sea-salted mess, and Hannibal knows that if he dragged his lips across Will’s head now, he could taste that salt again. Hannibal wants nothing more than to touch, and his hand stretches out of its own accord to hover a centimetre over Will’s bare skin. His eyes linger on the raised scar that runs horizontally across Will’s abdomen.

His fingers ache to touch. To trace that line, feel the raised skin under his fingertips. He put that mark there. It is in his right to touch something he created. But if Will wakes now to Hannibal touching him, it will make Hannibal’s efforts to earn Will’s full trust and, eventually, his affection, a great deal more difficult. No, Hannibal must resist him. He cannot touch Will without Will’s permission. He will not touch Will like that until Will himself asks it of him.

He wants so much to touch. But he doesn’t. He retracts his hand.

It is not his place to touch yet. Will will come to him, eventually. And if not, then Hannibal will have to make do with Will’s platonic companionship, and that is better than nothing.

He takes Will’s shoes off, and finds a blanket to place over Will. Hannibal moves to the bedroom next door. He does not bother to undress other than taking off his own shoes. He does not make up the bed any more than he made up the one Will is lying on. He is unconscious the moment he lies down.

*

The day that follows is subdued. Hannibal and Will orbit around each other without much of a word. It is a strange atmosphere that they have never had to deal with before. Of comfortable silences, they have had many. Angered silences, yes. But awkward silences they have not had to deal with since the early days. Will retreats to the lounge and stays there. Hannibal gives him space, but eventually joins him.

He watches Will stare at the blank laptop screen before him for nearly two hours before Will closes it again and gives up. He knows Will wants to check the news, and undoubtedly their deaths will be headline stories for the foreseeable, but Will clearly cannot bear it just yet. Hannibal himself wishes to discover what it is the police and the media have had to say about the severed presence of Dolarhyde’s body, and the absence of their own, but Will looks tense and strung tight, and Hannibal does not wish to be the cause of an impending snap. He will leave it, for the time being.

That evening Will checks Hannibal’s stitches and redresses them. He is alert and aware this time, and yet as he looks at the bullet wound in Hannibal’s skin, Hannibal cannot read Will’s facial expression at all.

“I’m sorry.” Will says suddenly, quietly, and he looks up at Hannibal defiantly, daring him to try and challenge the apology or ask what Will is apologising for. Will wants Hannibal to accept it. He wants Hannibal to let it go.

Hannibal knows what it is Will is apologising for. He is apologising for pulling Hannibal off that cliff with him without knowing whether he wanted them to survive the fall or be killed by it. He is apologising for the indecision that nearly led to their deaths.

But as far as Hannibal is concerned, Will’s indecision meant that they had a means of untraceable (or red herring) escape. Will’s indecision has brought them here. Will’s indecision over whether he wanted Hannibal alive or not stings uncomfortably, but Hannibal has Will now, and will have time to remedy Will’s opinion on whether having Hannibal in his life will be a blessing or a curse. Hannibal knows it will be both, really, as long as Will lets him in.

Patience needs to be exercised, here. Patience. One step at a time.

Will wants Hannibal to accept his apology. He wants Hannibal to let it go.

So Hannibal accepts it. And Hannibal lets it go.

*

They look at the headlines together, the next day. Will is silent as he scrolls through news story after news story, and Hannibal stands behind him, intending to be an anchoring presence at his back.

Hannibal is amused by the headlines. There is so much confusion, it nigh on makes him gleeful. The Ripper inside him grins at the sight of it all:

_Did Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham really kill The Tooth Fairy?_

_Did they fall off the cliff? Were they thrown? Did one push the other over the cliff and make a break for freedom? Did one kill the other and throw his body to the sea? Have they both drowned? Do they both still live?_

_Did Will Graham design the whole plan of having Hannibal Lecter act as bait in the FBI’s hunt for Dolarhyde with the intention of freeing the cannibalistic serial killer?_

_What did Will Graham’s wife have to say about it?_

Will apparently has had enough upon seeing the media’s hounding of Molly Graham, and the laptop is slammed shut.

He remains quiet for the rest of the afternoon, and Hannibal keeps a wary eye on him. He has the distinct feeling that Will is about to do something foolish.

It takes a couple of hours, but Will finally gets to his feet without a word to Hannibal, and silently leaves the room. Hannibal follows him three seconds later.

He enters the kitchen to find Will standing at the back door, a hand on the handle.

“Will.” Hannibal says abruptly, pushing down the unusual sensation of panic that Will intends to leave. He keeps his voice controlled and firm, but it also comes across as mildly threatening, because he is panicked and is instinctively on guard. “Where are you going?”

Will halts with his hand still on the handle, grasping it tight. But he does not turn it. He looks like a rabbit caught in a snare, frozen with a moment of indecision about whether to struggle to escape or lie still in fright and wait for the inevitable.

Will is flighty. And Hannibal has only a couple of seconds to convince him to stay, rather than take off into the night. Because what would Hannibal do if Will chose to leave? What would he do? Would he chase after him, bring him down? Would he force Will to stay against his will? Keep him prisoner? He hopes Will does not force him to make those choices, because he knows he probably would. He cannot let Will go now. He prepares himself to launch after Will if he attempts to get the door open.

“Will?” He prompts again.

Will’s gaze jumps to him and away again. His fingers finally relax on the door handle, and Hannibal releases a steady breath as Will lets it go.

Will laughs unsteadily, and runs a hand exasperatedly through his hair. “I don’t know.” Will says, honestly. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

Hannibal tilts his head and watches Will until he has moved away from the door and back into the room. “Do you refer to right at this moment, or in general?” He asks.

Will laughs again, a little bitter. “Both.”

“You’re going to stay with me.” Hannibal says, and does not make it sound like a suggestion. He will not give Will the ammunition of sounding hopeful.

“Yes.” Will agrees absently, “Be with you. I suppose that is the way I am heading.” He turns abruptly and walks past Hannibal and back towards the lounge. “I’m having a drink.” Will calls back over his shoulder.

Hannibal only allows himself to feel bewildered for a second, before collecting himself and following Will back out of the kitchen again. He hopes this does not become a habit; him following at Will’s heels like a lovesick pup. He would much prefer it the other way around.

He finds Will in the lounge, sitting at a small circular table that sits close to the fireplace. Will meets his eyes steadily, much more focused than he was a moment before with his indecision at the door, but still a little bitter. “Have a drink with me.”

Hannibal eyes the full glass of whisky sitting before Will sceptically. “Do you think it wise to be drinking whilst still on pain medication?”

“I didn’t ask for your medical opinion, Dr Lecter.” Will levels Hannibal with a scathing look, and slams down a second glass on the dark wood of the table. “I’m asking you to humour me.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows twitch upward. “And this will solve your problems, will it?”

Will’s mouth twists into a grim smile. The knife wound in his cheek still hurts him to smile and he winces, the curve of his lips fading again. “It will for a night.” He shrugs, “That’s good enough for me. And I’m not asking for your professional opinion either. I don’t want to discuss my ‘problems’.” The empty glass is pushed across the table. “Have a drink with me.”

Hannibal is curious to the new situation that has presented itself, and so he complies, seating himself opposite Will and gesturing for Will to pour him a glass. Will pours a generous amount and then sits the bottle between them.

“Thank you.” Hannibal offers, when Will does not look up or remove his hand from the bottle. Hannibal clears his throat and picks up his glass. “And what are we toasting to?”

Will finally looks up, takes his own glass, and clinks it against Hannibal’s. “Oh I don’t know. To being dead, I suppose.” He drinks.

Hannibal watches Will’s throat work and wonders where this evening will take them. Will is in a strange mood today, and it really could take them anywhere. Hannibal would be lying if he said he wasn’t eagerly anticipating the results. He tilts the glass toward Will and responds, “To death. May it give us new life.”

Hannibal smiles into his glass when he sees the corner of Will’s mouth twitch up again just a little.

They drink too much.

Will becomes intoxicated faster than Hannibal does. They keep the conversation as light and jovial as the pair of them can manage, and steer any topic away from their current situation and Will’s uncertainty. Hannibal has forgiven him for it, as long as he stays here with him. As the evening progresses Will’s smiles become more frequent as the whisky numbs the pain in his cheek. Hannibal relishes any achievement at producing a smile or laugh from Will; they might be induced by alcohol, but it has been so long since he has seen them, that he does not care.

They talk until it has grown very late; the fire is crackling and it is dark outside. Will is beginning to talk less, and slump lower in the armchair he inhabits.

“Come on Will,” Hannibal decides, despite very much enjoying Will’s sleepy, relaxed state, and the glow of the fire on his skin and hair. “I think it is time for bed.”

Will squints up at him, hazily offended. “I have a curfew, now?”

Hannibal refrains from rolling his eyes. “You are a grown man, Will. You can go to bed when you wish. Personally, I am going to bed.” Hannibal gets to his feet, and narrows his eyes as the room sways slightly. “Goodnight, Will.”

“You used to bring me food to make sure I ate, so you may as well choose my bedtime.” Will grumbles. He hauls himself to his feet and staggers when he is upright. “I suppose you’ll be making me the meals again too, huh?”

“If you wish.” Hannibal replies. He walks out of the room. He expects Will to follow, and Will does.

“Well, you’re the chef.” The laugh that follows borders on a giggle, which is far more amusing when Hannibal imagines how appalled Will would be if he made the sound sober. “A pretty infamous chef.”

Hannibal halts in the corridor and spins around to eye Will. He knows Will is intoxicated, but he dislikes anyone insulting his prowess in the kitchen, even if it is Will Graham. “I assume you refer to my excellence as a host and cook.”

“Well, of course. You love having people for dinner.” Will scoffs and nudges Hannibal with his uninjured shoulder, half falling into him as he tilts. He snorts to himself. “Having people for dinner.”

Hannibal half-considers letting Will drop to the floor, but catches him at the last second. “You are being rude, Will.”

“Then eat me.” Will suggests, and then he pauses, and glances up at Hannibal like he thinks he’s crossed a line. Like he thinks Hannibal might consider it.

Of course Hannibal has considered it at one point or another. Hannibal cannot halt the grin that spreads on his face. If only Will knew the feast Hannibal would have made of him if compassion had not gotten in the way of it all. He still hungers for Will and wishes to devour him, but now it is in an entirely different way.

Will sees the grin and thinks himself forgiven. He gives a lopsided smile back. “Or don’t. That would be good, too.”

“I am not so sure, Will. I think you would taste quite succulent.”

Will gapes at him and then notes that Hannibal is joking, shoving him back with a bark of laughter. Hannibal catches Will as he gains too much momentum from the push and stumbles again. He spins them both so that Will is pressed to the wall where he cannot fall.

Abruptly, Will stops laughing.

Hannibal looks up at him, and realises how close their faces are. How close their bodies are. Will is staring at him, dazed, but also a little curious. In his semi-drunken state, Hannibal fails to stop his gaze from flicking down to Will’s lips. Oh how he wants him. How he has waited. He wants Will more than he wants blood, wants power, wants the hunt. He wants Will to be his. But every time they have ever gotten this close, Will has danced out of his reach, or thrown them both off a cliff.

But now he is in Hannibal’s reach. He is in Hannibal’s hold. Hannibal distractedly presses Will further into the wall, to feel Will against him. The bullet wound in Hannibal’s abdomen burns at the pressure, but there are more important things to concern himself with at present.

Will’s breath audibly stutters, and Hannibal distractedly watches the bob of Will’s adam’s apple. Will’s eyes are darting across his face, and he can feel the quickened pace of Will’s heart from where their chests are pressed close together.

Hannibal has not even realised he has leant ever closer, his lips hovering just mere centimetres from Will’s, until Will suddenly turns his head, so that Hannibal’s lips brush Will’s cheek instead.

“Don’t.” Will says.

Will has denied him. Hannibal jerks his head back, but it takes a moment for him to collect himself and force his body, which so badly wants, to move back and give Will space. It pains him to move away.

He wants him so badly. He wants Will in entirety. He hungers for him. Will is so drunk, that if Hannibal really wanted, he could easily coax Will into saying yes; convince him with his lips, his tongue, his hands. He could change Will’s mind.

But he does not want to take advantage. He does not want Will’s drunken attention.

No. He wants Will to come to him. To fall for him. To decide that it is Hannibal he wants and to tell him so. And Will is not going to do that tonight.

Hannibal stands back, and straightens his jacket. “I apologise, Will.”

“S’ok.” Will slurs, already turning for his bedroom, using the wall as a support as he walks.

Hannibal watches him go. He feels a longing that is unquenchable. He has Will so close, and yet he cannot have him. He doubts that Will will remember this encounter in the morning, but Hannibal will, and he does not know whether to hope that Will does too, or that he forgets it ever happened. It is the cruellest of situations, and Will’s clear uncertainty about where they stand - allowing Hannibal close and then pushing him away again - rubs salt in an already gaping wound. It stings worse than sea water does in a bullet wound. Hannibal would know, because he has felt both in a close proximity of time. And all of it for Will Graham.

Which is why he now has to wait for Will to come to him. He has done all he can and the pieces of the game are now waiting for Will’s next move. It may take longer than Hannibal would prefer, and Will may need a little more subtle persuasion, but Hannibal has waited this long, what’s a little longer, if it is Will that is the prize of his patience?

Will will love him eventually. But not tonight.

Not tonight.

Hannibal sighs, and goes to bed alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story. I very much hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please remember to leave me a kudos or comment, as I am a creature that requires encouragement and I love to know all of your opinions. If you haven't checked out the other fics in my Mentor Tormentor post-series 3 verse (in which Will and Hannibal do actually become legit murder husbands) and wish to do so, I hope you enjoy those too!
> 
> This fic actually was inspired by this post: http://warpedchyld.tumblr.com/post/134433797569/reasons-why-i-need-s4 from tumblr, which says what good watching it would be to have a scene in which Hannibal goes to kiss Will, but they are still in the tentative beginnings of murder husband times, so Will refuses him, and Hannibal has to reluctantly back off. Thank you so much to Hintricate for linking me the original post!


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